Welcome to the World, Harry Potter
by Hippothoe
Summary: A look into James and Lily's married life and their dealings with pregnancy, love and possible loss.


I may or may not extend this into a series of one-shots. That solely depends on the reaction. And if you're wondering, yes, I am indeed begging for reviews.

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I wouldn't be here. Trust me.

Enjoy.

--

_**Welcome to the World, Harry Potter**_

"You, are an _asshole_."

It's an honest statement, straightforward and unassuming. Coming from his wife, it's almost like a kick in the balls. Privately, he agrees with it.

But teasing Lily's become a game, and like fencing, it's all about thrust and parry, parry and thrust, so he flicks water from the bottle on her back, soaking her shirt and making her flinch, and tells her to shut up. Getting worked up is not good for her. She mutters explosively, something he can't hear, but which sounds suspiciously like 'git'. James breaks out in a grin, glad she can't see.

She's sitting on a mossy rock with her feet in the water, and her belly is round and low. James can see its taut curves beyond the crook of her arms. He wonders when the baby's going to come, when she's finally going to be able to get some sleep, eat properly. They're ready for it. They've prepared the room, painted teddies and vibrant golden sunflowers and powder pink butterflies on the walls. She's knit fluffy, mismatched blankets and he's whitewashed the crib, which Sirius had made and which is wonky, but Lily loves their friend too much to give it back. Instead she makes James oil it and sand it smooth, and she puts it in the corner of the yellow room and says it looks fine, just fine. Says she loves it.

She makes him promise, when they build the room, plastering on wall paper and polishing floorboards, painting, scraping, layering and lacquering, that they won't use magic. He argues endlessly but she's adamant. She wants to give the child something they've made, use her hands and her strength. Reluctantly, but wholeheartedly, James agreed. He's powerless against her; her beauty and her goodness. Her intelligence.

"Yeah?" he asks. "Why's that?" He flicks open the basket nestled in the roots of a nearby oak, fumbling with plastic trays and boxes full of fruit, puts away the bottle. If she catches him with it, she'll hit him over the head with it and tell him to grow up, she hadn't married a three-year-old. Lily has packed to feed an army - he'd heard her the night before, in the kitchen, waddling around and rummaging through cupboards, the fridge, his minibar. He'd heard the clink of bottles of juice and marmalade, pickles. He'd been tempted to drag her back, tell her to relax, offer to rub her shoulders. Disjointed images of mumbling and cursing surface in James' mind, memories of the previous night, or rather, earlier that day, and he stifles a chuckle. He remembers unpeeling heavy lids and catching the milky neon numbers on the clock, and groaning as he heard the rattle of pans tumbling to the ground. He'd almost seen the expression of pinched self-disgust on her face, tightening as she bends to scoop and pluck up the mess, her belly full and heavy enough to pull her within an inch of the tiles. Better still is the sight of her braless and sweatsoaked in his singlet, doing her best to keep from waking him as she shuffles back to their bed and she eases next to him with a muffled lack of grace.

"You put me in this misery." She angles her spongy throbbing feet out of the water, wriggling her toes. The movement strains her aching back, jostles the stiffened muscles and Lily moans. "I can't believe you."

"Is that so?" queried James, coming to sit beside her. Her auburn hair, which James is convinced is the prettiest part of her, even prettier than her rosy nipples, or the creamy, downy dip of her navel, is shining and reflecting and flowing around her face; James doubts she's ever been more beautiful. Her hand rests lightly on the curve of her pregnancy, and even in her pain, and goodhumoured outrage, it's gentle and loving, and she mouths sweet words to the baby within. "I distinctly remember you being more than eager to-"

"You're never touching me again, do you realise that?" she grunts cheerfully, promptly interrupting him, spring-green eyes twinkling at him. She's relishing this moment, making him squirm like a little boy under her gaze. "Never, ever again. From now on, you're sleeping on the couch." And then those selfsame mint-coloured eyes are squeezing shut, glazed over with a haze of pain. Lily pauses, hissing through her teeth, fingers clenched tightly in the stubbly grass. She churns up moist brown soil, filthying her hands. "And you can do your own laundry."

"Would you like me to give birth for you too?"

Lily snorts.

"That's not very ladylike, you know," James comments, knowing he's being annoying and loving it.

"I'm not in a very ladylike mood." She shifts back and forth on her buttocks, fanning herself with her staw hat. "Look at me, James," she gushes in exasperation, poking her swollen, blue-veined breasts. The firm bulge of her pregnant middle throbs as the baby swims inside, flutters fluidly back and forth. "I look disgusting. I feel worse."

He threads his fingers through hers, pressing kisses to the silken skin on the back of her hand. "You're beautiful, and I've never been more willing to take you to bed, and do unspeakable things to you, regardless of the baby's modesty." James fiddles with the winking stone mounted on her wedding ring. "If you don't stop you're whinging, I'll be forced to do that right now."

James searches her flushed, freckled face, sees the pain she's hiding behind her good-humoured complaints and half-hearted threats. He feels himself soften, wanting to gather her up like a sick child in his arms and take away the discomfort. She wouldn't let him, he knew. She'd use her size as an excuse, complain of being bloated and ugly.

_"You don't want me, anymore. I look like a bloody cow," she said unhappyily, eying her old clothes, her old lacy lingerie and lime-coloured heels, with yearning. She wore deep blue, sitting with a crumpled juice-box in her hand and jewelled combs in her hair, her shoulders slumped comically. They're going out, but he can't remember where._

_"It's just your luck, love," James replied, adjusting his tie, sea-blue and a perfect match for her dress. She looked great. "That's my favourite farm animal."_

There's silence between them for a moment, drooping out stretchily, tensing James' shoulders as he considers saying something, but not knowing what, before Lily fractures it and whispers,

"I'm scared, James."

He curls a protective arm over her plump, sticky shoulders, kisses her temple. She smells like crushed vanilla pods and cream. "You shouldn't be, Lils. You know I'd never let anything happen to you. I'm too stubborn to let you get hurt."

She chuckles ruefully. "James Potter, Death Stopper. I think that has a fantastic ring to it, don't you?"

At the word _death_, James' heart clenches tightly, battering hard against his ribs. He can't bear to think about it. James swears he won't. "Don't talk like that," he murmurs darkly.

She's sensed his fear, James knows, and he curses himself. She doesn't need anything else to stress her; she had enough weighing on her mind. Things have been tough, lately. Lily is fragile. She hasn't slept - _can't_ - and when she does drift off, the slumber is always light, and her body is folded into unnatural poses to keep pressure off her belly and leaking breasts; when she bathes, the mild lull of the water (even the brush of foamy suds) against her turgid nipples makes her gasp.

"James, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he sighs.

"Are you hungry?" she says, abruptly changing the subject to lighter things.

"Hell yeah," he concedes enthusiastically. "Starving. What've we got?"

"Patee, peanut butter and sliced apricot sandwiches," she replies without missing a beat, her face a complex study in amused innocence.

"You have to be joking."

"Not on your life."

"Anything else?"

"Gherkin chutney," Lily says.

He gives her a stricken look.

"Stop looking at me like that," she demands, beckoning the basket over to their spot by the stream with a languid wave of her wand. It floats over, perfectly balanced on the piquant breeze, landing to her right.

"How'm I looking at you?"

"Like I've grown a second head."

"This is worse," James reassures her.

Lily puts a crusty wholemean sandwich in his hands. "Eat."

James crosses himself, and stuffs it into his mouth.

The smoky taste of bacon and newly churned butter floods his mouth, and Lily laughs.

"That's for wetting me."

--

The smell of the hospital is chemical and sharp, like disinfectant. Under that there's the metallic tang of blood, the sweet odour of old wounds and infections.

James breaks out into a sweat. His watch reads 11:28 - it's been four hours. He doesn't know what's taking so long, and they won't let him see her.

The last time he was with her, she was crying, babbling, hunched over and mopping up the deluge of amniotic fluid surging from between her legs. It fanned across the floor, forming puddles, tinged faintly pink with traces of blood. Some of it was absorbed, obscenely, by the carpet. The shock knifing through James rooted him to the spot.

_Don't just stand there! HELP me!_

He'd barrelled her into the car, and James had kept his calm until her first agonised scream, the very first crippling contraction. It ripped through her. Then he was driving like a madman.

She was forced from his arms the second they got to the hospital.

James hasn't seen her since.

He rushes to nurses, doctors, begs them for information, however minimal, because he's getting scared. He's getting terrified. That day by the stream, in the park, weeks ago, surfaces in the forefront of his mind, blinding him, constricting his throat. _James Potter, Death Stopper. I think that has a fantastic ring to it, don't you?_

_Oh, gods. Lily. _

James imagines, against his will, a future without her. It's dominated by empty rooms and bare walls, cobwebs and dusty shadows. In the obscure backdrop, there is an oppressed childish whine, barely audible, like it's sounding underwater. There are drawn blinds. James' heart pounds behind his ribs, the bile rising in his throat. He prays, desperately, for her deliverance. He thinks he'll go mad.

And then, miraculously, there is a woman beside him, dressed in a crisp, white uniform, her golden hair caught under her cap, and she's smiling at him, congratulating him, leading him away. James doesn't know what to think. So he follows.

Mouth dry, he follows.

He hears the linear roll of plastic doors, the ting of metal apparatus, scalpels, tongs, syringes, in big-bellied trays, smells iodine and splitting human tissue. All activity in the room is confined to the far corner, which in that moment is the centre of James' gravity, his only care. He scrabbles forward, his breath freezing in his lungs as he hear something else, under the noise, the hum, that has dominated the room. James, his ear for one brief burst in time hypersensitive to all sound, hear a cry, and the disbelieving, sniffling laugh of a new mother. His wife.

_Don't just stand there! HELP me!_

He'd barrelled her into the car, and James had kept his calm until her first agonised scream, the very first crippling contraction. It ripped through her. Then he was driving like a madman.

She was forced from his arms the second they got to the hospital.

James hasn't seen her since.

He rushes to nurses, doctors, begs them for information, however minimal, because he's getting scared. He's getting terrified. That day by the stream, in the park, weeks ago, surfaces in the forefront of his mind, blinding him, constricting his throat. _James Potter, Death Stopper. I think that has a fantastic ring to it, don't you?_

_Oh, gods. Lily. _

James imagines, against his will, a future without her. It's dominated by empty rooms and bare walls, cobwebs and dusty shadows. In the obscure backdrop, there is an oppressed childish whine, barely audible, like it's sounding underwater. There are drawn blinds. James' heart pounds behind his ribs, the bile rising in his throat. He prays, desperately, for her deliverance. He thinks he'll go mad.

And then, miraculously, there is a woman beside him, dressed in a crisp, white uniform, her golden hair caught under her cap, and she's smiling at him, congratulating him, leading him away. James doesn't know what to think. So he follows.

Mouth dry, he follows.

He hears the linear roll of plastic doors, the ting of metal apparatus, scalpels, tongs, syringes, in big-bellied trays, smells iodine and splitting human tissue. No screams of pain and rending pressure ring out through the room. Dimly, James wonders if he's in the right place, if this is the birthing room. People, hidden behind masks and snapping latex gloves, wash and rinse their bloodstained hands, murmur to themselves and to him. All activity in the room is confined to the far corner; in that moment it is the centre of James' gravity, his only care. He scrabbles forward, his breath freezing in his lungs as he hear something else, under the noise, the hum, that has dominated the room. James, his ears for one brief burst in time hypersensitive to all sound, hears a cry, and the disbelieving, sniffling laugh of a new mother. His wife.

"Lily," he breathes.

The doctors and midwives see him, and form a tunnel between their ranks, admitting him access to the woman beyond them. She is crying, grinning, sweating in exhaustion. Her hair is plastered in darkened tendrils to her brow, curling down to her half-bare breasts. The tip of one engorged nipple makes a half-moon above the hem.

His eyes meet hers, and he watches tears collect in their soft corners, flowing down her cheeks into fat, hot salty drops. The tip of her tongue swipes up, licks them away. "James," she says. "Oh, James." She cradles a bundle in her arms, swaddled in muted blue, craning her head to peer at their son's - their _son's_ - tiny pink face. James feels a powerful wave of protective fatherly love, stronger than anything he's ever known. It is odd, he thinks, because he's known this squalling little person for less than a minute, barely any time at all, but he loves him more strongly, more resolutely than he's ever loved. James has never thought he had such an overwhelming propensity to feel this much for anyone other than Lily. When he levels his eyes again, he's convinced she feels the same.

He doesn't know how she can't.

"James, meet Harry," she says, smiling, inviting him to her side as the doctors disperse, clasping him on the shoulder, shaking his hand. He doesn't register any of it.

"Harry." The name exits gustily out of his mouth, and for a moment James is speechless, adjusting his glasses and running a shaking hand through his hair, the other hanging awkwardly by his side, because he just doesn't know what to do with it. He's torn between wanting to dance and yell and collapsing, senseless.

"Harry," he repeats.

"Do you like it?"

"It's perfect," he says. Then he stares expectantly at the bundle, which smells of bathwater, baby oil and chalky talcum powder, and whose tuft of fine black hair makes a stark contrast to the green of his eyes. It rises like wisps of cotton out of the blanket. Harry is a perfect part of both himself and Lily, a blending of their two bodies. He's the most exquisitely perfect baby James has ever seen. Embarrassingly, he feels his eyes tear up, and moves to wipe imaginary fog of his glasses with his shirt, trying to hide from Lily's understanding sympathy.

Lily offers him his son, her beautiful white hand cupping Harry's head, easing him into the crook of James' arm. She strokes James' cheek, whispers a light kiss to his lips. She's tired, she says, tired, but happy. Happier than she's ever been.

She loves him.

James kisses her palm, tightly grasping her hand. He sits by her as she drinks water from the jug, giggling when he raises his eyebrows at her. Then she turns her attention back to Harry, drowsing in James' arms.

"What do you think, Harry? Your father's not such a bad guy, is he?"

Harry gurgles, bubbles of spittle on his lips, almost as if he understands them.

"Welcome to the world, Harry Potter," James says.

"Welcome to the world," Lily agrees, her mouth touching her husband's temple.

--

_Exeunt._


End file.
